


After Everything

by uncannybee



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Frank Castle/David "Micro" Lieberman, Minor Frank Castle/Karen Page
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 09:09:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18312569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncannybee/pseuds/uncannybee
Summary: There’s something about the shoes.





	1. Chapter 1

There’s something about the shoes. Always running, mind and body. He can’t ever stop, see but he did this to himself right? He deserves this, he deserves the anxiety and the sleep that either never comes or cuts through him like a KA-BAR, leaving him open and bleeding and gasping for air.

“Just keep hold of these.” Madani had told him as she tossed him his boots. She basically told him he could never stop running, never stop and she had no clue just how fucking right she was. 

So he never takes them off. When he’s at Curt’s house, or David’s or even his own. They stay on unless he’s in the shower or in bed, and even then sometimes he doesn’t make it that far. There’s a hole in the wall his bed is up against from one of the times he woke up fighting, his steel toe busting through it like cardboard.  
There was something about the discomfort that kept him grounded, something about the stiffness and the way his boots sounded when they hit the pavement, it keeps him moving, right? The only peace of mind he allows himself is knowing he could up and run at any time, combat ready in any situation. Even if that situation is knocking back Bud heavy in Curtis’ kitchen. Bonus, he’d have a medic on hand.  
But the first time Frank knocked on Karen’s door, he came in heaving and limping and bleeding (all over her floor, and that couch is fucked) and the first thing she did was sit him down and take off his shoes. And she didn’t just unzip them right, because that would be too simple. No she fucking knelt down and unlaced his boots, Christ she even took her time with it. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Even his socks were soaked in blood. 

A soft, “Come on,” were the only words spoken, as she helped him up and led him to the bathroom. Her bathroom. There was something oddly intimate about it, like seeing her zit cream and hair dryer on the bathroom sink was an invasion of privacy. He would probably care a lot more if he wasn’t so lightheaded. Is everything spinning or is it just him? She caught it though, of course she did, and sat him on the toilet before he had the chance to fully welcome the unconsciousness. 

And he sat there, tired and mumbling mostly to himself. She caught a few “sorry’s” but she wasn’t sure what for. Tears fell but he didn’t know why. It really didn’t hurt so bad anymore. She shushed him quietly, repeating the same words until they got through.

“You’re okay, just breathe,” She wiped the blood from his face, clearing the way so see the real damage and placed a hand on the side of his face to steady him, careful, always careful. 

She put 4 stitches in an ugly gash above his left eyebrow, 7 in the one on his bicep, 16 in the one on his side and 12 in the one on his thigh. She needed to remember to get more black thread before his next visit. He barely noticed she had finished patching him up; all he could process was how warm her hand had felt on his skin, but then again he was sitting on her toilet in his wife beater with his pants around his ankles. Not exactly how he pictured this encounter going down. Still, he secretly wished he had more cuts for her to stitch up, just so she would touch him like that again. So fucking unbelievably gentle. He didn’t do that anymore, he didn’t get to do that anymore. The kind of touch he used to crave from Maria, the kind that wasn’t meant for sex but for healing. When she died her touch went with her, something Frank never thought he deserved but grieved over anyway.

But here he was, sitting in her bathtub with his bare ass out and his knees as close to his chest as he could get them. Thank god for deep tubs and for all this fancy ass soap because he didn’t have the energy to worry about covering his junk. He was shaking and covered in blood and he didn’t even know how much of it was his but she was pumping lavender body wash onto a loofah and it occurred to Frank that he hadn’t used one of those since home. 

“Okay, so,” she broke through his thoughts. “I need to get this blood off, and I don’t want to make this worse because I don’t exactly know if you’re good with this or in good enough shape to even…give consent? I guess? I guess that’s where I’m going. But if you want me to leave you alone to try and do this yourself, now’s the time to let me know, otherwise I’m diving in.” She waited. “Frank?” Soft but genuine. She needed to know.

“Stay.” It was barely a sound, more of a grunt. His voice sounded like had swallowed broken glass.

“You sure?” She pressed, but when he met her eyes she knew he was.

“-’m good. Stay.” 

And so she did. She used that loofah and more of that lavender shit than she probably needed but she was just as nervous as he was exposed so the solution was more soap. She got his arms and legs first, those were easiest. When she brought the sponge over the back of his neck to wash the blood out of his hair he shuddered and dropped his head on instinct, tucking further into himself. He wanted to be so small he disappeared but he also so desperately wanted to be right here.  
She washed down his back, careful to avoid the gash on his right side. He couldn’t still his breathing when she dragged across his shoulders. How was she still so goddamn soft? He was still shaking, shuddering like he was freezing even though the water bordered on too hot. She shushed him almost subconsciously. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on her hands instead of the fact that he couldn’t breathe. She asked once if he wanted her to stop, but he declined. She thinks he knows he needs this as much as she does; no way he does it on his own in this state. She pumped the soap twice more and tilted his head back slightly.

“Close your eyes for me.”

She washed the last of the blood out of his hair and watched as his mouth fell open, just a little. His hair was getting long on top; she would have to cut it again soon. He was always good at keeping the sides clean but he could never get the hang of the top. Karen unhooked the shower head and flipped a switch by the drain. As she rinsed his hair he tilted his head back further and finally, finally, let out a long, (almost) steady breath. He swallowed the lump in his throat and told himself Karen wasn’t paying attention to the tears that slipped down his cheeks. Again with this crying for no reason bullshit. He kicked himself for getting so goddamn sensitive. She surprised him by pressing a hand to his cheek and pulling him in towards her, kissing his temple and maybe lingering for just a second. 

“All done,” Frank hadn’t even heard the water shut off.

Karen helped him out of the tub and grabbed him a towel. His stuff was a pile of blood and fabric; she’d deal with that later. She led him to her room and sat him on her bed and he felt like he was breaking the rules again. She dug out a pair of sweats she usually gave to Matt when he needed to crash. She might have picked out her favorite sweatshirt too, the one that was a triple XL, used mostly without pants when she had a day off. She got out a pair of Halloween themed fuzzy socks too just in case, because they were warm as fuck and what psychopath doesn’t like fuzzy socks. 

“I was going to make some tea, unless you need some help getting dressed.”

“Nah, I uh, I think I got it. Tea sounds good.” He looked up at her, blood smeared in a couple places on her shirt, her face. She seemed like she was used to it and that, that hurt deep. 

“Thank you. For this, I’m sorry, I mean, all this. I don’t—” He cleared his throat, “Just uh, just, thanks.”

She didn’t exactly smile, but her eyes softened enough that he saw it anyway. 

“You’re welcome.” Always so fucking soft. She shut the door and he got dressed. It took him double the time it usually does but he didn’t bust any stitches so, silver linings right? 

They drank tea and he slept on the couch. He was gone when she woke up but he made sure to make a fresh pot of coffee before he left.

But it was different with him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was different with him.

It was different with him. Being vulnerable in front of another man was not something that was unfamiliar to Frank. When he was a soldier, that vulnerability was the only thing that got them through war. Being able to kill and torture and dig graves with these men meant shit if they couldn’t take solace in each other afterwards. 

With Bill it was easy, shit, he pretty much pulled it outta Frank when he needed to. He challenged Frank to come back to himself after he had been, seen the absolute worst, but he still wasn’t scared and that was the difference. Billy Russo was the only one for a long time, who saw the Punisher before Frank was even aware he was there. He saw Frank unleash on the battlefield, saw him let his primal instincts take full control, let him do what needed to be done because ultimately, it was us or them, who was better. And nobody was better than Frank. Bill was the only one for a while, who ever saw the After. The sweat and the tears and the vomit and the blood that never seems to stop after an op, see Bill was there for all of it. When he talked Frank back from whatever ledge he was toeing, he spoke to him like he was normal, like he wasn’t lethal, like they were still sitting at the baseball field, watching one of Frankie Jr.’s games. It scared Frank how well Billy knew him, how easy it was for him to get inside of Frank’s head. But at the end of the day, it’s the only reason he made it back alive. 

And then everything changed. All with one simple question, 

“Why are you here?”

Because he wasn’t covering him like they had planned he was here, he was here in the stairwell with him and Madani and he was shooting at Frank, shooting to kill and then that was it. Brothers became enemies. Family meant nothing and everything all at the same time. His heart, what was left of it, hurt for his wife, hurt for his kids and for how much they loved Bill. He heard how many times his wife had told him to give him a second chance, because everyone deserves to be loved but she was wrong see? She was wrong and he got her killed and now instead of waking up next to his wife Frank was sleeping in a dingy basement that smelled vaguely like death, and the only person he wakes up next to is a 6’4” bicurious spook with hair like a fucking mop. 

David was confusing to Frank. At first he treated him like he would any stranger: a threat. It was easy to disarm the threat, check for tails, secure the perimeter, scan for explosives and guns but that was over fast, too fast, too easy and now…now the only thing for Frank to focus on was David. David, who kept telling him over and over that all he wanted to do was talk but there was still a voice in Frank’s brain that was screaming at him not to trust him. For a while he listened, he had to. But after David got the jump on him tied ass naked to an office chair? After David drugged him and still didn’t kill him, after he woke up with his pistol loaded on his chest and the smell of coffee invading his senses. After he finally, finally convinced Frank of his cause, of their, collective cause it seemed, only then did Frank start to speak to David like a person not a threat, only then did Frank slow down. He slept more, though the first few nights were painful to watch. When he started using sarcasm instead of just asking questions. The first time Frank told a joke David actually cried a little. Slowly, so, so fucking slowly, Frank settled. 

He forced himself to accept that there was no threat, not down here. The only comfort he allowed himself was the thought that if a pussy like Lieberman could stay alive down here a year, he could make it a few weeks. They drank black coffee and Scotch whiskey and ate homemade burrito bowls and fried eggs. They sat with blankets around their shoulders, watching street camera feeds, security tapes from inside Homeland. Listening to police scanners and keeping tabs on all the spy channels, the ones no one use except the people who know to. 

Frank watched over David’s family while he slept because even though it tore Frank to fucking pieces he figured he could at least keep this one safe if not his own. David secretly had access to the feeds inside the New York Bulletin and watched over Karen from time to time. He didn’t know what she was to Frank but he knew she was special. He didn’t dare tell Frank unless Karen was in any real danger; he figured any “help” he thought he was offering would be seen as an intrusion. So he kept quiet, watching over Karen whenever Frank lost his perpetual war with sleep. He kept quiet so that he stayed asleep. He kept quiet when Frank screamed himself awake from nightmares too, crying out different names depending on the day. 

They didn’t talk about it ever, yeah. Even after Frank woke up and took a shot at David when he stood up too fast, in the middle of a half-asleep, halfway to a panic attack sweep of their basement. He missed, not by much, shooting the coffee mug out of David’s hand. They didn’t talk about it at all when David came over slowly and took the gun out of Frank’s hands, hands that were shaking so fucking hard. Didn’t talk about it when Frank’s knees gave out and David hugged him close, be it awkwardly, sat with him on the cold cement and shushed him, told him it was fine, that he missed, that it wasn’t his fault but David’s own. They sure as hell didn’t talk about how hard Frank cried into the shoulder of David’s stupid fucking silk robe after he pressed his lips against the side of Frank’s head. They never spoke about how broken Frank really was, as long as he let David silently put the pieces back together each time.

After Gunner there was a shift. After Frank got shot up for the first time since he was captured by the Kitchen Irish and the only thing he could think about was how much he needed help, David’s help. Frank started having new nightmares then. Dreams about Gunner in the woods, begging him to leave him, just to bury him, his words on a loop in Frank’s brain, like a sick soundtrack to his family’s murders. (He never did go back for Gunner’s body; another family member he left in his trail of blood and bullets.) He dreams about not only his family now but David’s too. It always ends the same though right? Always. And if that doesn’t burn enough he then wakes up and realizes it’s real, it’s all real, and it’s all his fault. It’s real and it never ends. David waits nearby, ready to remind Frank mostly of where he is, that he’s safe, those were the big ones. Then he has to devastate Frank all over again.

“Gunner’s dead. He’s gone, Frank.” The grip he has on Frank’s arm he hopes is reassuring, his thumb brushing over bruised skin. 

“But you don’t…I have t—I have to bury him. I promised I’d—”

“I took care of it. Frank, hey. I took care of it.” Frank tried hard to hide his reaction but his face cracked anyway, emotion bubbling at the surface. David’s hand went to Frank’s shoulder and stayed there.

“He’ll be buried proper.”

Two weeks later Frank still can’t stop thinking about his nightmare. He keeps seeing his family, now accompanied by David’s, sitting down for Thanksgiving dinner, welcoming him home and fucking toasting to his name and then it’s just him and the bodies. He’s left screaming and helpless and seeing them shredded by gunfire. So in hopes of finding another image to be stuck on, and maybe another ending to his nightmare, Frank blindsides David by telling him about the last Thanksgiving he remembered, suddenly and it’s no wonder he picked the shitty turkey.

It takes David by such surprise that all he can do is listen in stupor as Frank tells him about Maria making Thanksgiving dinner, about her spritely grandmother from Sicily, about dinner at their place complete with too much wine and the kids and their cousins and eating too much and booming laughter. How it always started early, like 3pm early because no one was patient enough to wait until a decent hour. He talked about the calm and the warmth that can only be family. He made David laugh, made him cry, he made him want to wrap Frank in a hug and keep him there for a minute. When Frank finished his food he noticed David hadn’t eaten any of his. He didn’t comment. Thanked him for the meal and excused himself to go sign Sarah’s paperwork. 

When Sarah kissed Frank, it was a whole issue in itself as David’s wife kissing Frank, right, but now Sarah was the first woman Frank has kissed or touched since Maria, the first time he allowed himself to be kissed or touched. It was beside the point that David has now kissed them both.


End file.
